“Holding out for a Hero” by Ryan Jones Disclaimer: I Do Not Know

“Holding out for a Hero” by Ryan Jones Disclaimer: I do not know any person involved with American Idol, especially Adam Lambert, and all events are completely fictional. Some of the other characters, including the main one, are based on people in my life, but all their last names have been omitted to protect their identity. Also, if you are not of legal age to be reading graphic material (which this story will eventually contain) according your part of the world’s laws, don’t pursue this story. Part 2 My phone sang and danced to a lyric-less tune 10 minutes before it was needed. I rolled over and reached beneath the pillow muffling the nuisance, resisting every urge in my body to catapult it off the seven-foot cliff that is my lofted bed. However, surprise won over morning grouchiness as I saw that Hannah was the cause of the racket. We share all the same mutual friends in the photojournalism program, yet she tends to keep her distance from everyone. Seeing her name come across my cell’s display had me curious more than anything. “Hello,” I answered an octave lower than my normal voice. It told anyone I had awoken in the last hour. “Shit, Ryan, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Hannah apologized. “It’s no big deal, my dear. What’s going on? I don’t think you’ve called me since we had to stalk Kay Hagan across the state together last semester.” “Ah, well, I’m assuming you’ve seen the contestant assignments for the American Idol trip.” “Of course! I am so glad you’re coming on this trip, as well. Maybe we’ll get so frustrated again and have to slip off to Starbucks to hold another anti-photo rant. Good times.” “Why on earth do I have two people?!?!?” Hannah exclaimed. Wakeup calls are rarely pleasant. My foggy brain searched through its contents to answer her question, and all it could muster was the fact her name did, indeed, sit in the email I worshiped for hour hours last night assigned with two contestant names. As I climbed down the ladder end of my bed, clenching the phone to my shoulder with my head, it hit me. Consciousness does have its uses. “Oh, duh! We won’t start working until after the results show next week, meaning we have no clue who will be going home. So, if one of yours goes home, you get the other. If someone else’s goes home, I’m sure Pat will let you keep whomever you and your group prefers.” I explained. “I hope Michael Sarver goes home when we get there. He’s a good boy with a good voice that’s going nowhere fast, and I do not want to be stuck with him. Danny Gokey, on the other hand, will suit me fine,” she said with innuendo that made me giggle. “I see your Gokey and raise you a Lambert,” I chided back. “That pretentious asshole, are you kidding?” “Hey, hey, there will be no hating of him on my watch!” She fell into a fit of laughter. Everyone was quickly learning this person I had not even met yet had some strange hold over me. Facebook statuses about marrying him one day and posting of videos of his pre-Idol performances certainly helped spread the word, as well. I stood in the middle of my room clad in only tribal-themed pajamas thinking that all I needed was a sign claiming to be carrying Adam’s baby and I would officially be a teeny bopper. My zygote-less stomach tensed at the insane thought. Hours upon hours of searching YouTube for Adam’s previous performances certainly informed me at least he enjoyed men to some degree. In fact, yesterday is when all the photos of him kissing another male surfaced on the internet. Many even said he submitted those himself, which certainly impressed me. I cannot think of any big time celebrities who lived openly queer lives from the start of their careers. People throw Freddie Mercury up there along with Ellen. As amazingly queer as they were and are, they did not come out until they were well established or facing death. Freddie actually never came out about his sexuality, just his HIV infection. Society did the rest of the math to figure out the rest. “Adam could be the first,” I mumbled mindlessly. “What?” asked my interrupted, babbling friend. “Nothing, I just, yeah…American Idol…” “Ryan, there’s no hope for you.” I sighed in agreement and finished the conversation quickly. We were about to see each in an hour, anyways, for class. The same senseless, pop-culture obsessed babble took over the class once I arrived their. Pat had troubles talking over all the random conversations about how we will give Tar Heel hope to Anoop once we arrive and who was the most attractive contestant. As graduating photojournalists entering an awful economy and a time where the all the standards of getting into the journalism world are changing, we were excited to add this to our resumes. Not to mention, we would be covering the show the world was watching and talking about. The closest any of we would get to these contestants otherwise would be through a 1-866 number. Not everyone could go, though, and they provided the only silent spots in the room. I hated watching them burry their faces into the oversized Mac’s lining the classroom, trying to occupying themselves with editing, emails, anything other than the classroom chatter. They all wanted to be a part of the infectious laughter and desire to be something greater that lined every conversation when any of the fortunate team members going to California gathered. Those discussions didn’t stop, not even as we were going through security. I watched Heather spread the enthusiasm as a security guard used a hand-held metal detector on her body. “Spread your legs and hold out your arms,” commanded the short security guard. “It’s these hairpins, I tell you,” she pointed to her Pentecostal-length hair as she obeyed. “We have to do this regardless, ma’am” “I wonder if Kris will like this style,” Heather gushed over the Christian, soft rocker while trying not to laugh at the wand scanning various parts of her body. The guard paid her no mind. “He is married but I think once he got a sample of some big girl lovin’ he would reconsider his options.” “We’re done here,” moaned the officer while pointing the way for Heather to retrieve her items and leave her alone. I laughed as I walked up to Heather and thanked her for that entertaining bit. “All these cameras around, and nobody got a single shot of my violation,” Heather responded. “Well, I will be sure to document when Kris’s wife attempts to violate your face for making movies on her honey,” I added. “I could take her.” With that, we joined the remainder of our group and headed to our flight. Time could not pass fast enough, though. While I enjoy most of the people on the trip, they aren’t the first people I would spend hour after with on a long journey. That said, I made some breakthroughs. I managed to entice a member that hates me for no apparent reason into several rounds of Go Fish. It was better than sitting in my head, willing with all my might that I could stop being herded around like cattle. Those compartments never provided comfort room, rather it allowed airlines to move as many possible to the next field. There, you could much for a bit, but then another shepherd led you to the next pasture before you could even reach your proper bearings. I just wanted to taste the sweet grass of LA and soon. “We will be arriving at LAX in approximately 15 minutes, passengers,” the pilot relayed to my screaming brain. The UNC crew scattered about the plane all looked around at each other in excitement, even Pat. This was not his first choice of a photojournalism project since the paparazzi give us such bad names. While the money American Idol offered to donate to the program didn’t hurt, he hoped we could show pop culture what our careers are truly about, and that was not needlessly stalking celebrities. I held onto the arm rests as our plane landed in the city where everyone went to make it big. Adam did it. We were doing it. The fresh, outside air pleasantly filled my lungs with freedom. We wheeled our suitcases up to the four vans FOX has provided us to reach our hotels, We had to move quickly because the officials needed to brief us as soon as possible with the week’s events and we had to get all our credentials and tickets before the show started in a few hours. “You have 15 minute to drop your stuff off and return to the lobby,” barked Pat before proceeding to call out room assignments. We of course had to share rooms with the same gender, which kept my options limited. They numbered a few, and I certainly wasn’t best friends with any of them. They either were crazy, quiet or unconcerned—all things I didn’t understand. “John, Ryan and Zach, room 502,” Pat read. John the Quiet and Zach the Unconcerned and I rushed to our room where I lost a coin toss, giving me the foldout bet.

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